Reclaiming Blackness, Finding Home, And Coming Out: Why These 5 Young People Changed Their Names
"Being called by your real name – that’s my healing."
In Mongolian, my name can be broken into two parts: Ankh meaning ‘first’ and Zaya meaning ‘fate’. Since I was my parents’ firstborn, they thought Ankhzaya was the perfect name.
That being said, for as long as I can remember, everyone in my life, with the exception of my grandparents, has called me Zaya.
Since my family moved to Australia almost 20 years ago, I’ve spent a lot of time either correcting people’s pronunciation of Ankhzaya or telling them you can just call me Zaya. But, despite most people consistently mispronouncing both of my names, I’ve never wanted to be known by anything else.
The only time I’ve ever wondered what others thought about my name was at the start of my so-called ‘career’.
After sending out countless applications for jobs in the media industry, and hearing radio silence in return, my mind briefly but genuinely wondered whether my name had anything to do with it.
While I was able to push that thought out of my mind as quickly as it had entered, many culturally and linguistically diverse (CALD) people in Australia do change their names under the guise of ’employability’. And there’s plenty of research available to validate their decisions.
In 2017, a University of Sydney study revealed that applicants with Chinese names were three times less likely to get a job interview, compared to those with ‘white names’. This phenomenon is commonly known as ‘name bias’, and there’s plenty more research from all around the world that proves its existence.
And so, the thought occurred to me: if a name has enough power to influence your employment, what other facets of life does it influence? After talking to a handful of young Australians from CALD backgrounds, I’ve come to learn that whether you realise it or not, your name is intrinsically intertwined with your sense of identity, especially when you’re part of a social minority.
A Name That Reclaims Power
Late last year, 24-year-old Tosan Foss decided to stop using the name Victoria — a western name her parents gave her after moving to Australia from Nigeria.
“Victoria just slowly creeped into how I was being introduced. Like, I remember going to my very first school in Australia and being introduced as Victoria,” she told Junkee.
Being eight at the time, Tosan didn’t question her parents, but a few years later, Tosan asked for an explanation.
“They had been watching news programs like A Current Affair, where they were hearing stories of people who had non-western names being passed over for things like jobs, promotions, and opportunities. So, I think it stemmed out of a fear that my siblings and I would be passed over for jobs in the future,” said Tosan.
But as she entered the workforce as Victoria Foss, Tosan noticed something else. Due to her name and Australian accent during phone interviews, most hiring managers expected her to be white.
“I just didn’t even know how to respond to that, but I didn’t get the job.”
“You go for the job interview. You walk through the front door. You go to the reception. ‘Hi, I’m Victoria, I’m here for my interview.’ And they go like, ‘oh…’.
“I had an interview once where the interviewer said, ‘When I read your resume, I didn’t expect you. As in, I didn’t expect someone who looks like you.’ I just didn’t even know how to respond to that, but I didn’t get the job.”
Tosan soon decided to close the chapter on Victoria Foss and start fully owning her Blackness. She stopped straightening her hair, grew an afro, and started to publicly use the name Tosan.
“With Tosan, there’s so much connection to growing up in Nigeria, spending time with my family,” she said. “When I think about Tosan, I think about power. Being called Tosan reminds me of who I am, it reminds me of where I come from. Victoria kind of just feels like trying to wear clothes that don’t fit.”
A Familiar Name To Help Get You In The Room
When Harry Liu, 26, moved to Melbourne from China almost a decade ago, he didn’t plan on adopting a new name. As a high school student with no family in Australia, Harry lived with a homestay family alongside another Chinese student.
At the start, Harry went by his Chinese name, Yixuan Liu. So did his new-found friend and housemate, Yixin Liu. The two Chinese students’ names were similar, but different.
“One day, they [homestay family] started calling me Harry and my housemate Leo,” Harry told Junkee.
When Harry questioned the sudden and unsolicited change in their names, the homestay family played it down saying, “Why don’t you like Harry? It’s like the prince from Britain.”.
When Harry shared the story with a teacher, she seemed to deem it a trivial event and said his new name was nice.
Harry admits he was surprised by the whole thing. But being a 16-year-old international student who was not yet fluent in English, living abroad for the very first time, he decided to move on — there were bigger things to worry about.
“Now I think about it, it was really weird. But back then, I just thought it was no big deal,” said Harry. “The name Harry just stuck — and now I kind of feel like a Harry.”
Despite the strange turn of events, Harry believes the western name has helped him in his career, especially after a professional CV writer once advised him to not use his Chinese name. And the advice has worked out for him so far.
“I think [it’s] unfair, but it is what it is. I mean, even the most politically correct person who doesn’t really think they discriminate — if they were to do a job interview — they would probably rather pick someone who’s English, or at least who they assume to be fluent in English.”
An Aussie Nickname That Just Won’t Quit
Though many people struggle to pronounce her name correctly, 27-year-old Sharannya Suresh has never wanted a western name, but one keeps sticking around.
During her first week at university, Sharannya noticed she was one of the few students in her cohort who went by a Sanskrit name. Most of her CALD peers went by a westernised nickname. She wasn’t quite sure why, until somebody gave her one.
One day, a senior student dubbed her ‘Shaz’ and it stuck.
“It wasn’t something I really chose. Everybody was just like, ‘Shazza!’. And it just stayed,” Sharannya told Junkee.
Similar to Harry, Sharannya was new to Australia and just wanted to fit in with those around her. So, she moved on, assuming Shaz was just a phase that would eventually pass.
“Looking back, just randomly assigning me this nickname in the space of five minutes or less was disrespectful,” said Sharannya. “If I went back in time, maybe I would have made an effort…and not given people the option of calling me Shaz.”
But now, it’s a part of her Australian experience that sometimes seeps into her professional life as an early career doctor.
“A lot of people in my workplace, especially those who are of Asian background, take the trouble to learn how to say my name. But a lot of doctors don’t — they just say ‘Shaz is way easier, we’ll use that’”.
A Name That Feels Like Home
Anthea Rose Banks is a 34-year-old Mangala woman who was born and raised in Bidyadanga, the largest remote Aboriginal community in WA. Although her parents gave her the name Anthea, after her godmother, and all her legal documents have the western name on them, she doesn’t feel like the name truly identifies her.
“I hardly hear the name Anthea. That’s my gardia name, mostly used by white people, or if I’m being addressed at work,” she told Junkee.
“A lot of people know me as Anthea through my work [as an Aboriginal interpreter], a good hard-working woman, and it makes me proud.”
However, back in Bidyadanga, Anthea is known as either Anja or Anjya.
“Anjya came from my grandfather. It’s Kriol, because old people couldn’t pronounce my name. And that name has identified me since I was a baby. It’s rare that I use my English name unless I’m being addressed in the other society,” she said.
“Our name is really important. It identifies who we are.”
Despite being a proud Indigenous woman who takes every opportunity to share her culture with others, Anthea has no desire to share her Kriol name with those outside of her community. Unless asked directly, she won’t tell you about Anja.
“Our name is really important. It identifies who we are. Everybody’s name has a meaning.”
For Anthea, the name Anja is home — a private and safe place, which she has no intention of sharing with new people, even if they have Indigenous roots.
“I use Anthea in this modern career society. In this white world.” she said. “When I go back home, I like to sit on the ground by a campfire and feel that connection you know? Being called by your real name — that’s my healing.”
A Nickname That’s A Source Of Pride
Aditya Sud, 25, hasn’t officially changed his Indian name — he just prefers to go by Adi.
“Adi is a name that, for me, carries a lot of the weight and growth that I’ve gone through,” he told Junkee.
When Adi came out as queer a few years ago, his family had a hard time accepting it. But those who were around to support him through that period called him Adi.
“Adi is the name that encapsulates the struggles that I’ve had to go through and the fact that I overcame them,” he said. “Adi is the name that I associate with me persevering and getting through the financial and familial difficulties after coming out…and being at peace with who I am.”
Beyond the significant tie his name has to the community who supported him through coming out, Adi also just prefers the nickname over his full name.
“Not because I’m ashamed of it or hate it, I just can’t be bothered going through the motions of listening to people attempt to pronounce my name and get it wrong. It’s almost like a fatigue of some kind,” he said. “In saying that, I would never change my full name to Adi, because it’s a link to my Indian heritage”.
(Feature Image: Tosan Foss/Partografia Photography & Film)
Zaya Altangerel is a freelance journalist who writes about science, social issues, and pop culture. She occasionally shares hot takes on Twitter @ZayawithaY.